Hot Blooded Creatures
by hushedgreylily
Summary: Clawen, AU in 1960s Mississippi. Predominantly smut. Oneshot.


**This is completely and utterly nothing to do with Fallen Kingdom, because it was started long before I had anything more than the first trailer, and I wrote something in response to that (see** _ **Echoes**_ **).**

 **I have however see Fallen Kingdom, and I loved it, but that's a story for another day. That will inspire so much fic eventually.**

 **Basically, this is an AU for Clawen in 60s Mississippi, where plot is neither the most prominent feature nor hugely important – it descends into smut relatively quickly.**

 **Enjoy!**

When he finds her, she'd thought she was untraceable, behind the trellis at the west end of the large Dearing garden. No one had ever found her there before.

 _Married._ That's what echoes in her ears, and without the definition to quite seem real. _You'll be married in the summer._

It's 1962, for heaven's sake, and this is Mississippi, not India, and she's been proud to be an independent woman, taking a lead role in overseeing the Dearing family ventures. Hell, she's been practically running the house since her mother took to her bed with a 'poor disposition' three years ago, which wasn't an easy job; despite Karen's recent attitude. Ever since marrying Scott Mitchell Jr. and taken on an even bigger estate, her sister had gotten all self-important and condescending about the Dearing land. But it was sizeable, and it took some running.

It hadn't taken Karen long to forget that.

And Claire had been managing just fine, all on her own, with her father only glancing over the books maybe biannually, still caught in the seemingly infinite loop he'd been in as far as Claire could remember, futile reminiscing about his days in the Navy, before anything as normal, bland and unexciting as a wife and two daughters. Two daughters, never the long-awaited son to inherit the Dearing estate.

So, as her mother had just ever so kindly informed her, without even a moment put aside to ask Claire's opinion, permission or even acceptance, the Dearing estate was going to be left to some third cousin twice removed or something who currently still lived in the big house in the farmland in India, and is probably going to live a decade more than Captain Dearing at most. And she, as no longer standing head of the Dearing estate, is going to be married, this summer, to _one of the Hoskins brothers._

She feels her stomach churn, images of the Hoskins brothers as she'd last seen them, at the summer town dance, all leering and slightly red in the face. And she remembers Victor, the worst of the three, leaning too close to her and offering her another glass of wine, the stench of whiskey thick on his breath.

The Dearing and the Hoskins family had been close friends, partners even, for years, in business and in society, and it had always been assumed, but never quite spoken, that the Dearing girls would marry the Hoskins boys, even as the years ticked forward into the 60s and people liked pretending they lived in a world far too progressive for things anything like arranged marriages. But in families like the Dearings, with the upbringing that had been Claire's, it was a suggestion she'd always been exposed to, an idea that had been seemingly normal, almost inevitable to both her and Karen from a very young age. The Hoskins boys came from a good family, the marriages would bring an almost glory to the Dearing family name, and they were _good girls_ , they weren't going to cause a problem, rebelling against what should happen.

Until Karen found herself Scott Mitchell Jr., apparently by chance in a Natchez wine bar, and the Dearing parents had had to re-evaluate all their simple, flawless plans for their daughters. Because although Karen breaking with Victor Hoskins, the eldest of the three, and choosing her own husband would be damaging to their reputation, the Mitchell family owned over half of the decent farmland surrounding Jackson, and the family business was worth over twice what the Dearings could ever hope for, even on a good year.

It had been unspoken, but it could only have been assumed that the betrothal to Victor Hoskins had now fallen to Claire. He was the eldest brother, the one to inherit the Hoskins estate, and for that reason it seemed the only logical choice. And Captain Dearing and her darling mother would be laughing, really, if one of their daughters married far above what they could ever have expected and the other, lesser second daughter took on the Hoskins estate.

But the lesser second daughter is fiery, and although she's leaning against the back of the rose trellis, on the path down to the stables, struggling to breathe and feeling overwhelmed, something is bubbling inside her. The defiance that had been festering under the surface there, ever since she was a small child, and the defiance that maybe wasn't going to be silenced this time.

Because the past years have shown her what she was, on her own, running an estate and as good as heading a house, and she's become quite proud of it, quite proud of her ventures, and accustomed to being something more than the lesser second daughter, something more than that other Dearing girl. She hasn't been a child for a long time, and she'd proven that – the profits from both the orchard and the vineyards have been better than ever before, with no one else at the helm.

She grits her teeth, and forces herself to level her breathing. She'll argue back, she'll have to. Maybe she can make even her father listen if she puts together viable-looking business and progress plans for the estate – that was the only language they ever communicated in – and then surely seeing what an asset to the Dearing land she was would persuade her father to override her mother.

She turns, to start walking back towards the main house, her study, and to pour over the books, but Owen's standing right there.

He takes a tentative step towards her, the silence suddenly hanging heavy.

"Claire…" is all he manages to breathe, and it sounds like pain in his voice. She runs her eyes over him, feeling something like a trapped animal. They haven't talked like they used to, not since he's been back on the estate, but that connection still runs deep. He's still everything he once was.

Owen Grady was their previous butler's son, and his mother had worked in the kitchens, so he'd always been tearing around the grounds, particularly in the summer, with the Dearing girls, despite the whisperings, despite what the society folk would say about the 'unhealthy mix'. Captain and Mrs Dearing hadn't worried, the girls had both been young and headstrong, and allowing them some time to diffuse their excitement seemed to equal better table manners, better decorum, and an ability to sit quietly and drink tea without itching to go outside.

So they'd gone from rolling in the mud, to chasing through the vineyards, to riding the family horses together, and at some point along the way it had become just Claire and Owen, when Karen had found herself suddenly a _young woman_ rather than a child, and found their games nothing but disruptive and irritating.

They'd just always seemed to fit together, with an ease Claire had never felt for anyone else in life, and so the moment he announced his deployment date with the Navy, the tears and the shouting had seemed nothing but normal.

She'd only been fifteen years old, but suddenly that far away adult life was hanging right over both of them, and she had to say goodbye, perhaps forever.

She'd had a clumsy, messy first kiss with Owen Grady that last moment together on the docks, and although they'd laughed awkwardly afterwards and given each other a one armed hug, she couldn't deny the stirring she'd felt somewhere inside her she hadn't known existed, the way it made her heart flutter for months afterwards when it crossed her mind.

It was seven years before she saw him again, and by that time she herself was a young woman, and Owen was certainly a young man.

The day she was introduced to the new stable hand, she felt her heart in her mouth, and she had to double take. Because she recognised the man in front of her, in another life, but seven years all around the world in the Navy had weathered his skin, roughened his hands, and given him a look in his eyes that felt slightly dangerous. She'd felt that familiar flutter inside her once again, only now she recognised exactly what it was – he'd become a man, and the kind of man that set her heart aflutter. She'd nodded, all prim and proper as one of the heads of estate, but she'd thought she'd seen the half smile touch his lips, on the face she still remembered better than her own.

These past years he'd been working in the stables, she hadn't seen him anywhere near as much as she had as a child. Of course, she had adult duties now, and he was probably a changed man from his service, and so nothing could go back to the way it used to be. But somehow, in the same way, just having his presence somewhere on the estate was strangely comforting.

And apparently he remembered their childhood games of hide and seek, where they'd always hid from Karen behind the rose trellis.

She can't meet his eye.

"Claire?" he tries again, and he can't quite conceal the worry in his voice. She sighs. He must have heard something of the argument with her mother, or at least seen her storming out of the house, tears ruddying her cheeks.

"They're leaving the estate to Barnaby Taylor on the Indian land, they've decided they don't need me running the Dearing estate anymore… he's closer in age to Father, he's got no children, it's the most ridiculous decision for the business, and I-"

Owen holds his hands up, understanding starting to flit behind his eyes. "Woah, Claire, slow down."

She huffs, almost exasperated. "They're turfing me out and leaving the estate to a man not young enough, without any business running experience, without any heirs… and they think they can just do that and marry me off to Victor Hoskins… this is a terrible idea for both the wine business and the orchards and where we're going to take the cider distillery in the future, what we're going to plant on that extra land, it's irresponsible and I don't think Father thinking about the business side of it, the assets that we have and-"

"Victor Hoskins?" Owen half spits, his blood boiling, his fists clenching.

Claire rolls her eyes. "That's what you got from that? The businesses are going to fail without direct oversight, Father's leaving the future of the whole estate in the hands of an old guy in India, and-"

"What about you, Claire? What about what's happening to you? What about what you want?"

She shakes her head, exasperated, because he's infuriating, Owen Grady. Deliciously infuriating, but still infuriating. Because it's never been about what she wants. That's always been at the bottom of the pile of her concerns. Until now, it had been about the family business, and maintaining the profits to put the good figures behind her father's name, it had been about proving her own abilities to Karen, and her mother, and anyone intrinsic enough to the family to witness its inner workings, and it had been about pride and independence and not-needing-anyone. But it had never been about what she _wanted_ , simply about standing on her own two feet without a cane.

He takes a step towards her, and he won't take his eyes off her, and she can't seem to tear hers out of the lock.

"I mean it, Claire." he half-snarls through gritted teeth. "What do you want? Maybe this is the tipping point, maybe this is the moment you let them know you don't agree with any of it… maybe it's time you took back some control over what you have, and what you want to have, and…"

And then, because she's been looking at him sideways since he came back from the Navy, because she was convinced she was madly in love with him before she even really knew what it felt like, and because suddenly none of it is fair, she doesn't want to marry one of the Hoskins brothers, least of all the disgusting Victor, she throws all caution to the wind, and doesn't _think._ She grabs the lapels of his gardening jacket to pull him, roughly, towards her, she pushes her lips against his, their teeth clunking together with all the grace of those two awkward teenagers they once were. For a moment he doesn't move; he's frozen against her, like he isn't quite processing what's happening. Her heart's thumping, she's sure he can probably hear it, and she just holds against him, waiting for _something, anything_ to shift between them.

And then it does, and his hand's curling in her hair, and suddenly his tongue is moving against hers, and if she'd thought her heart was thumping before, it's now at almost twice the speed and echoing in her ears.

After the initial awkward impact, the almost false start, once his tongue is snaking against hers and he's threading his fingers through her hair everything seems to implode. All those years of waiting, _imagining_ what it would have been like to keep going on the docks that day, and suddenly it's more than she ever could have dreamed of. All of a sudden, his whole body is tight against hers, pushing her against the trellis, and she's sure in her _whole lifetime_ that she's known him, she's never realised he was this _huge_ , this imposing.

The slats of the trellis scrape against the exposed skin on the back of her neck, but she doesn't falter. Because every inch of him is suddenly pressing against every inch of her and suddenly something's burning inside her, something _alien_ , but somehow not – it's like that feeling she's been having every time she's looked at him a second too long since he's been back, but a thousand-fold. It's something that's quite unusual and beautifully familiar at the same time.

He tastes just like he did in that one memory, all those years ago, but his tongue's in her mouth, she can feel his stubble scrape against her and his strong, hard arousal against her hip bone. She grinds against it, feeling a fire between her legs she's never felt before, that burning increasing inside her.

He tears his lips away from hers and rests his hands against the trellis either side of her head. Trapping her, but distancing himself, all at the same time.

His gaze drops down, like he can't meet her eyes, and he starts finding their feet interesting.

"What are we doing, Claire?" He sounds almost in pain. She tucks a hand under his chin, tilting his eyes up to meet hers.

She takes a deep breath, the burning inside her still festering under the surface.

"I've wanted this… I've wanted you… ever since…"

She's breathless, gasping.

There's a wry smile on his face now as he leans closer to her. "Ever since the docks?"

She gives him a tiny nod, feeling the flush building in her cheeks, just like the fifteen year old girl she was. "This is what I want…" she breathes before his lips meet hers again.

This time, it's different. Somehow, that unwittingly imposing military man is light as a feather, his fingers threading through hers, his tongue tentative against hers. But she's still gasping, and it's like a spark has been lit inside her that she can't stop, and so she tugs him even closer, nipping his lip between her teeth, and she's sure he almost gasps before he starts to move, pulling her past the trellis, down the path, towards the stables. And suddenly she knows where they're going, and her heart's skipping beats in her chest, because Owen has a little cabin by the stables he sleeps in when there's a foaling due soon or something, and she's sure that cabin must contain a bed.

Sure enough, stealing intermittent kisses the full ten yards down the path to the cabin door, Owen struggles with the door handle, determined to keep one hand in hers at all times, and then finally staggers into the little cabin, dragging her unceremoniously with him. As the door swings closed behind them her heart is in her chest; this is really happening. And he's pressing her against a wall and his hands are snaking up her arms and down over her collarbone, his eyes are dark and his lips are _everywhere._

She throws her head back, panting, that wonderful feeling intensifying as he buries his head in her neck, nipping and biting and her collarbone, and suddenly one of his hands has found her breast, and whilst his lips and teeth are frenzied, out-of-control, almost animalistic, his fingers are gentle and caressing and suddenly not enough.

"Oh God, don't stop." She pant whispers, and she's sure she feels his smile against her skin before he growls "I had no intention of it" and uses his other hand to push her hips against his.

It feels like she's on fire between her legs, and instead of being overwhelmed and made apprehensive by the sudden feeling of his huge hard length pressing against her there, she feels like suddenly there are too many layers between them and she's got no hope in hell of getting her breathing back to normal, her heart rate back to human, until there's nothing between them.

She snakes her fingers down and start working at the buttons of his pants. He swears against her shoulder, language she supposes years in the Navy had taught him, but language she'd only ever heard of, never heard spoken. Then he seems to regain his sanity for a moment, and tears himself, just slightly, away from her, meeting her eyes.

"You… you sure, Claire?" he gasps, and her heart bleeds for a moment at how dark his eyes are, how desperate he looks, and how he's still making sure she knows what she's giving up. "Because this… giving me this… you won't ever have that moment again…"

She wants to cry, if only for a moment, because he's been everything in her world for so long, since she was so young, and she thought she'd lost him, and when he came back, she'd been caught up in the life that she had found, the roles and responsibilities she had put so much emphasis on. She had been so caught up in it all, and then when it had been torn away, Owen had been there, right beside her, where he had always been, and suddenly he'd been a man in front of her, not just the boy she played in the gardens with. And all of a sudden she was a woman standing in front of him (when had that happened?) and she wanted to give him everything.

And now he's asking her if it's alright, if it's really where she wants to go… because this isn't supposed to happen in the stable cabin late afternoon after an almost explosive life event, to two old friends who haven't been the same in years, it should be the first night in a new marriage bed to a newly wed couple, young and in love… the thought of marriage makes her think of Victor Hoskins and everything this is about, everything that's imploding before her very eyes, and she looks Owen right in the eye.

"There's no one I'd rather have this with." She says, and despite there never being a decision to make, her voice sounds more confident than she feels. She's still terrified, she's still some bizarre mix of shaking and burning up inside. "I want you."

She swears something flashes behind his eyes before his lips crash against hers again, and this time he's lifting her, wrapping her legs around his waist, and staggering through the one door in the cabin.

She crashes into the thin, threadbare mattress of the cabin bed moments later, but it could have been her high thread count Egyptian cotton, she wouldn't have noticed, because suddenly he's unbuttoning the front of her blouse, and those roughened, huge hands are skimming across her skin with the delicacy of a concert pianist, burning against her with every movement.

Her fingers find their home on the buttons of his pants again, and this time he lets her fumble them apart and push them over his hips and release his erection, both their breaths catching audibly as her fingers brush against him on the way down. And suddenly he's easing her blouse over her shoulders, and those fingers are snaking under the satin of her brassiere, searing against her skin.

"Oh…" she snakes a hand into his underwear in response, taking him by surprise and stilling him for a moment.

"Fuck, Claire…" he hisses, and she almost cringes at his language, before realises the exact same is brimming to come out of her own mouth. She strokes along the length of him slowly as she pushes his underpants haphazardly away, the enormity of the whole thing almost suffocating her.

She lost her brassiere somewhere between his fingers finding their way underneath it, and realising he was naked from the waist down and she still had her skirt on, and suddenly, and without warning, his lips find their way around a nipple at the same time his fingers find the zipper on the side of her skirt. Suddenly one of those hands is in her panties and it's all light and delicate and _stroking_ but it's the **only** thing she can focus on.

She holds his head close, keeping his mouth and his tongue at her breast, and haphazardly with the other hand she starts pushing her skirt out of her way, past the point where she worries if it rips, if it catches. She can think of very little else right now, that being completely naked for him. Completely _exposed._ Letting him have his way with her.

It's all wrong, this shouldn't be happening, probably not even with the stable hand, whatever he used to be and still is to her, and certainly not in the stable cabin, but it feels so right, and she can't breathe. His fingers are dancing, just on cusp of where she suddenly wants them, and her hips are suddenly out of her control, bucking towards him.

Suddenly, her panties are around her knees, and then around one ankle and suddenly he's completely on top of her, overpowering and slightly frightening and _beautiful_ , and there's that look in his eyes she doesn't want to decode, she's not sure she can bring herself to translate.

"Sure?" he hisses, as he strokes his fingers lightly just within her, feeling how ready she is.

All she manages is to give him a nod, something bigger than she's ever felt before choking in her throat, that feeling suddenly increasing ten fold. His eyes lock with hers, and she's never seen them that dark, that out-of-control looking.

"This hurts a little." He half chokes, and then he's inside her, and it's both the most wonderful and different feeling of completion she's ever had in her life, and for a moment a searing pain that's barely comprehendible. He holds still for a moment, meeting her eyes.

"You alright?"

She bites her lip, managing a little nod. He holds still again for a moment, pressing his lips to her forehead.

And then, slowly, because it seems like the only thing to do, she starts to rock her hips. Gently, but then he's moving slightly inside her and the pain's so far away now she can only really feel this almost alien spark. Something changes behind his eyes as he starts moving himself.

It feels good, it feels really good. And he's burying his face in her shoulder and pressing open mouthed kisses to her skin, his hips rocking with hers, and that feeling building inside. In an almost overwhelming manner, as if it's about to reach a point where it's going to overflow.

And then suddenly it is overflowing, and she feels for a moment completely out of control. Like there's nothing in this world that could reach her right now, except for this man, this beautiful, gentle, _kind_ man inside of her, and her body's doing something she doesn't quite understand. As she starts to feel the ability to breathe return, he's getting faster, and then suddenly he's gasping against her, as if the same thing's happening to him, as if he's crashing into her.

"I love you, Owen." She gasps, because that's the only thing left that still makes sense. He presses his lips messily against her skin and runs shaking, stroking fingers down the side of her face.

* * *

He traces circles on the skin of her shoulder as she lays curled around him, a sheet tucked around their waists. He'd helped her wash gently afterwards, a little blood on the sheets, and she'd just clung to him, like he was her lifeline, like he was the only thing left. He'd then eased her back between clean sheets, holding her tightly to him, as if he had something of a similar urge not to let her go. And now they just lie there, just breathing. Close.

"I love you too, y'know." He whispers gruffly, and she smiles, because he's never been able to say things like that with any finesse. "Always have."

She feels her heart sinking, then, as she realises where she is, where she should be, and where she'll be in the summer if she doesn't find a way out of this life, if she doesn't fight her corner. And now she's thinking about _what she wants_ as he implored her to do, two hours and a lifetime ago by the rose trellis, the only thing she can think of that she wants right now is to stay in the arms of the man beside her for the rest of her life.

And that's terrifying. They don't even know each other anymore, not really, and they're both so different to who they were as children.

"We can't do this." She breathes, her voice catching in her throat, tears welling in her eyes. "I shouldn't be here."

There's an audible sigh, one she can almost tell he is trying to hide, before he speaks. "Shush. Not now." He runs his fingers through her hair, and suddenly any argument that she had dissolves on her tongue.

She buries her face in the slight indent between his shoulder and torso, sure he's feeling her tears on his skin. But she supposes no one will miss her this evening, tonight, and if everything's going to hell in the morning she'd rather spend tonight right here than crying alone.

"What I want is you." She whispers, looking up at him through tear stained eyes, looking so hopeless he swallows. "I think it's all I ever wanted."

A half smile touches his lips as he leans forward and kisses her forehead. "I've wanted you since I was about fourteen."

Through slowly drying tears, she raises an eyebrow, imploring him to go on.

He laughs slightly, and the subtle undertone of bitterness cuts deeper than maybe he'd intended. She takes a deep breath as she realises he's living in the same sordid reality she is, he's just stronger, and finding it easier to bury the truth, if only for a night. "You came home after that long summer away with Karen – and suddenly you were taller, and you looked like a woman…" he whistles quietly, closing his eyes for a moment, reminiscing.

"Like a woman?" she whispers, because his tone is stirring something inside of her, and she figures if he can pretend the world outside doesn't exist for tonight, so can she.

He chuckles slightly to himself as he snakes the hand cupping her cheek down her throat, over her collarbone to surround her breast, thumbing the nipple gently. "Like a woman." He breathes, before pulling her tighter towards him, drawing her lips to his.

Suddenly, that feeling's smouldering inside her again, and as if she's been by his side, in his bed, without a stitch on for her whole life, she knows exactly what she wants, exactly what that sudden feeling is pressing against her hip bone, and exactly what he wants too. His mouth is on hers again, and then snaking down her throat as he pulls her on top of him, surrounding a nipple as she feels his fingers between her legs, and suddenly he's lined up where she wants him most, and if she thought she'd known what it was like to want him before, she'd had no idea.

Because right now she _needs_ him inside of her, right now she thinks it's the only thing that might keep her hanging on.

She cries out as she feels him fill her up, and he stops abruptly and opens his eyes, worry descending over his features.

"Did I hurt you?"

She shakes her head at him, almost laughing as she begins to rock her hips, and it feels quite different but altogether beautiful. "God, no." she whispers, "You're perfect."

And, right now, the only thing keeping her surviving.

 _Fin_

 **That's a wrap! Hope you enjoyed – I would love to hear what you think, however short, however critical (though preferably constructive!).**

 **I'm not giving you any sort of time frame, but be aware that I've planned this out to be the first in a trilogy in this AU, with two other parts containing proportions of smut and angst and plot slightly different to this one, but all three nonetheless. So, the plot that I promised you wasn't all that important will give me something more of a story to write in the future. Keep looking out for it!**

 **Thanks for all your continuing support. xx**


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